


Under My Skin

by orphan_account



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Ballroom Dancing, Dorks in Love, Formalwear, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Mutual Pining, Romantic Fluff, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings, Young Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-04
Updated: 2017-04-04
Packaged: 2018-10-09 04:57:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10404429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: "I should warn you," Ignis sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose in an effort to will away the mounting headache behind his eyes. "This is will be a fruitless endeavour. Our crown prince is famously renowned in over three provinces for his lack of grace on the ballroom floor and, forgive my scepticism, I highly doubt a few lessons are going to improve that."Prompto grins brightly and tries to ignore how sweaty his palms are at the possibility of being pressed up against the lithe form of his best friend for extended amounts of time that can't be excused by a frigid temperature or a request for comfort."I've known the guy for years, Iggy." He says cheekily, hoping his face isn't as flushed as it feels. "I know he dances like he wouldn't know the word rhythm if it slapped him in the face, but you don't train with Gladio for years without learning some kind of timing."Ignis looks more exasperatedly fond than ever."You would think so," He acknowledges wryly with a dip of his chin, "but you think you can teach him something his tutors have failed to successfully instil in him since he was eleven ?""How hard can it be?" Prompto says offhandedly.Ignis snorts.





	

**Author's Note:**

> title is from frank sinatra's "Under My Skin". 
> 
> alternatively titled 'can i plz stop posting new works and just pick a wip and work on it'

"I'm not going," comes the muffled, sullen reply from somewhere within the mountain of thick blankets.

Prompto shifts, dropping his phone onto the bed, the cheery jingle of _King's Knight_ looping  as he stretches, trying to release the stiffness in his shoulders. He looked down at the navy blue nest he has swaddled up to his torso and spots familiar tufts of dark hair that are nestled so deeply into the fold, they could be mistaken for the dark plumage of a chocobo.

"Dude," Prompto giggles, tugging gently at the visible hair and surprised at the visible shiver the action elicits. "You've already escaped, what, the last four or five of these things? I really don't think your Dad is gonna let you run away from them forever. Even if you are a prince."

Prompto yawns then, rolls onto his back and drapes a hand over his stomach, eyes aching a little from the strain of the light from his phone. He stretches his legs languidly from their curled up position under the blanket. His foot accidentally brushes the soft skin of Noctis's thigh and it takes every ounce of inner resilience he has not to flinch. It's embarrassing enough that he has been silently pining for possibly the most unattainable crush in the history of crushes but retracting from the normal, if physical affection he shares with the his best friend would be painful for them both. It had taken a fair few weeks before Noctis was even comfortable with initiating touches beyond a friendly slap on the back or a gentle, teasing tousle of his neatly-styled hair. The thought of have that affection recoil, whether from discomfort or - Astrals forbid - disgust, twists sharply at the Prompto's ever-lingering insecurities and he absentmindedly rubs a thumb over the fading stretch marks etched into his stomach. 

A small " _hmph!"_ reaches Prompto's ears and shakes him out of his thoughts, fingers stilling on the skin of his torso. The petulant noise brings a soft smile to his lips, and he fishes cautiously through the mass of blankets and eventually his fingertips brush past the familiar fluff of Noctis's hair. He teasingly tousles his friend's hair, trying to ignore how loud his heartbeat is thudding in his ears and how heated his cheeks feel. Crushes suck.

This was all so much easier when he was under the impression that the reason his eye was so often drawn to the prince was purely platonic. Now everything he does regarding Noctis is permeated with newfound knowledge and desire: Prompto catches himself all too often, ashamed, daydreaming about kissing the skin under his best friend's baby-faced jaw, foolishly longing to tuck the prince's head under his own chin as he cuddles against Noctis's back while they watch a movie, dreaming of murmuring soft words of endearment and hearing the embarrassed, slightly stilted response swelling with a young love similar to his own. And yet, he realises anew with a fresh ache, he's kidding himself. Noctis never notices his feelings but even if he did and reciprocated against all odds, there is a destiny and a loving queen awaiting him at the end of an inevitable matrimonial aisle, not Prompto the high school pal. 

There has never been a King or Queen and Consort in the line of Lucis Caelum.

A spiteful, unfounded thought enters his head, and he immediately tries to swallow away the sour taste it leaves in his mouth: Maybe there should have been such a pair but the Crystal did not see them worthy to guard it. He tries to forget the notion, hating the bitterness that bubbles up within his heart. 

It would be bitterly unfair if he had possessed the misfortune of a reciprocated love and he tries yet again to suppress the old sadness and resignation welling up within. What's worse however is the awkward limbo of simply waiting for the expiry date for his inconvenient, one-sided romance. It wouldn't even be so frustrating if he and Noct weren't as close as they were.

'It doesn't matter what you're feeling right now,' Prompto screws his eyes shut, even as the thought elicits a sharp, self-deprecating pang in his chest. 'It's all temporary. There will be a time when you can be a good best friend again and not some creepy, pining weirdo.'

He startles at the soft, inquisitive brush of familiar fingers against his wrist and notices that Noctis has wormed his head and shoulders out of the blankets, fringe plastered to his forehead endearingly, peering at him. Prompto tries not to squirm as he struggles to maintain eye contact, unsure as to how useful Noct's fluctuating social skills are going to be in seeing through his cheerful facade. He hopes this is one of times when his friend will simply brush off any lingering social graces and be too lazy to inquire after Prompto's well-being. 

"You okay, Prom?" Noctis says, grimacing as he wipes the sweat from his brow and the sleep from his tired eyes.

No such luck. He's at too high a friendship tier to be granted relief from Noctis's concern, apparently. 

His expression is unbearably awkward and unsure and Prompto laughs despite himself, a little of anxiety in his heart lifting. Let it never be said that Noctis Lucis Caluem wasn't the biggest dork that ever lived. Noctis recoils slightly at the sound, the tips of his ears and face flushed with something more than heat as he ducks his head and presses his forehead into the mattress. He's embarrassed and Prompto knows he himself is sporting a mushy smile in response. 

"'Was just trying to help," is the reluctant mumble into the mattress and Prompto hates himself a little more for the beat his heart skips at the words. Noctis is just trying to be a good friend - he _knows_ that for Astrals' sake! Why can't his traitorous heart recognise it? 

"I know, bro. I appreciate it." Prompto says, voice surprisingly steady for how nervous he feels. Noctis has now stopped trying to burrow into the mattress and is looking at him with unconcealed fondness. Prompto's chest tightens at the sight and, embarrassingly enough, he has to take a moment to remember how breathe properly. 

It's unfair, he nearly whines aloud, if you're still attractive even with a flattened bedhead, slightly blotchy skin and bleary eyes then you shouldn't be making tender eyes at the friends who have shamefully big crushes on you. C'mon Noct, give your pal a break. 

"How come you don't want to go to your fancy ball thing?" He asks in a desperate attempt to distract them both. 

Noctis frowns and then begins to pout, evidently a little more awake than before but looking all the more ready to doze off again. Prompto has to repeatedly tell himself that the whole thing isn't ridiculously cute. 

"You know why," Noctis complains, doing a bodily stretch, looking something like a large cat as he arches his back, dark shirt lifting slightly and exposing to Prompto's quickly averted eyes and dry mouth a strip of pale, soft skin and a hint of his spine. "I can't dance and you, me and every stuck-up noble within a stone's throw of Insomnia knows it. Dad gave up on me learning to dance years ago."

The last sentence rings with a kind of resigned disappointment that Prompto has recognised for years and can't help but want to comfort, even if he flounders when faced with how to help. He opens his mouth to protest kindly but is silenced by a flat look from his friend. 

"Surely Iggy could help? Dude looks like he'd know about that sort of thing." The blond offers and Noctis snorts dismissively. 

"Even the almighty got fed up with a year or two of failure," He says, slumping into the mattress, defeated. "Look, can we just drop it? Dad can't make me go, end of story."

The prince begins to retreat back into his woven nest, yawning loudly, but not before reaching for down and snagging a firm grip on Prompto's ankle and tugging the blonde back with him. The boy in question lets out a small yelp as he's yanked further within the mound of blankets. He squirms frantically but the grip on his ankle has kept a steady hand on even the toughest and most wily of fishing rods so he doubts he can through sheer squirming alone. It's nice anyways, he decides sleepily, cuddling up against Noctis's back despite the stifling heat. He sticks his feet out of the end of the quilt and sighs with relief at the drop in temperature. Noctis is already snoring softly, having apparently fallen asleep as soon as he had secured his bedmate within the nest again. 

He'd read somewhere (probably on some _Ten Ways Rebound From Your Unattainable Crush_  forum now that he thinks about it) that the heartbeats of lovers sync up when they look at one another. It's kind of creepy, but also mildly endearing to the Prompto's lovesick brain. The idea that two people could form a connection so strong even their subconsciousness selves would recognise it and respond accordingly is kind of cute to him. 

Prompto's pulse flutters in his ears at the thought, a quick but steady  _"...bathump...bathump...bathump..._ ", its presence both a small defiance to the bar code stamped on his arm and a reminder of his foolish, intrusive feelings. And yet, as he slowly drifts away to sleep, in a moment of weakness and addled adoration, he imagines that the pulse echoing within his chest and the one within Noctis sync up for just an instant. Another small scrap of proof that he is loved, perhaps meaningless below the weight of all the affection he already receives from more than just Noctis but still foolishly important. Prompto smiles, a small and loving tilt of the lips: even if the love he is receiving is not wholly of the form he desires, it is still precious beyond measure. 

He sleeps soundly, face squashed against the mild ridge of Noctis's spine and hair spiked alarmingly against the expensive material of Noctis's shirt. He is Prompto is completely unaware of the moment when his best friend hurriedly turns over, spinning the blankets into some kind of a cocoon in his haste. 

And, like the complete charmless idiot Gladio teases him to be, Noctis freezes inside his makeshift nest and simply stares like a stunned chocobo in the headlights at the faint outline of Prompto. He is torn between cringing at himself, throwing the quilt over Prompto again and simply going to sleep while regretting his life choices or carrying through with his stupid, impractical staring. 

He feels more and more foolish the longer he looks at his friend, embarrassed at the furious spiking of his pulse Prompto's presence elicits even as he starts drooling unattractively in addition to his already loud snoring. The prince swallows thickly and reaches up to - to do _something_ , flinching at how the loud the rustle of the blanket sounds in the darkness. He reaches out, dimly intending to brush his tingling fingertips against the flattened tuft of blonde hair framing Prompto's face but in the darkness he misses and instead strokes the skin of Prompto's freckled cheek with the pads of his fingers. 

Noctis recoils as if he was burnt, wanting more than ever to bury his face in a pillow and scream. What is he doing (even if it was an accident), stroking Prompto like some forlorn maiden longing for the touch of her lover? A wave of embarrassed heat fills his body at the thought and he cringes bodily. He can still feel the lingering warmth of Prompto's skin. His galloping heart seems to have taken up residence in his throat. 

He is ashamed to recognise yet again that he has no experience in matters of lingering glances and touches that leaves echoes of heat across his skin, of dreams of childish forevers and defiance to destiny. He understands the idea of it, _likes_ it even from what little he has read from the romantic novels nicked from Gladio, but he has no real experience of any of it for all his bluster to Ignis (who probably saw through his bullshit anyways). He feels submerged, head muddled with half-formed, foolish fantasies of remaining by Prompto's side, blissfully content and a little frightened to explore the anticipated, unknown terrain together. It is a measure beyond their current, comfortable friendship that he desires and fears in equal part. 

For what lies in that unknown future would differ so far from the concrete duty that has awaited him since birth. What could he possibly be, besides the king he has been instructed to become? Noctis fears that uncertainty, for all that he dislikes the regimented steps to Kingship. It is an honourable position to hold and he has been told so since he could totter to his father's knee, but one whose mantle weighs heavily upon his shoulders. That mantle will bring his father to his knees, this Noctis has known with a sickening certainty for far too long and in turn, the weight of fate will crush him as well.

'Such is the fate of a king,' He thinks disgustedly, angrily shying away from the resignation that threatens to overwhelm him, a resignation that he can see in every tired step of father. The resignation every member of the Insomnia expects him to simply accept with the grace of martyr. 

Prompto shifts then, mumbling unintelligibly, jolting Noctis out of his dour thoughts, an affectionate warmth prickling in the prince's heart as he takes in the unwitting comfort of his best friend's presence. He can feel the fragile, dopey smile gently surface on his face as he glances towards where he supposes Prompto to be. The blond may not fully realise it (Noctis wouldn't exactly know if that's true - the whole effort reading social cues is exhausting and around Prompto he often forgets such things) but he has lightened the weight of an unavoidable future to an immeasurable extent.

Noctis tentatively presses his forehead to Prompto's then for an instant, eyes closed and trembling, his pale cheeks flushed. He does so for a tangle of reasons: in gratitude, in affection and in longing.

'This is silly, so very silly,' He thinks and for just a moment he thinks of pressing his lips to Prompto's cheek before the whole idea of it overwhelms him and he is flustered beyond belief, the pounding of his heart heart thunderous in his ears.

He withdraws eventually but not without one last, sleepy look of longing.

\-----------------------------

"So you see," Prompto finishes in a rush. "I've got a whole plan and everything for this to work."

Ignis's expression of barely concealed bemusement does not change, his flour-covered hands frozen in the dough, glasses frosted with icing sugar and pale hair stiff with an ungodly substance Prompto does not want to define. 

"I should warn you," Ignis sighs after a moment, pinching the bridge of his nose in an effort to will away the mounting headache behind his eyes. "This is will be a fruitless endeavour. Our crown prince is famously renowned in over three provinces for his lack of grace on the ballroom floor and, forgive my scepticism, I highly doubt a few lessons are going to improve that."

Prompto grins brightly and tries to ignore how sweaty his palms are at the possibility of being pressed up against the lithe form of his best friend for extended amounts of time that can't be excused by a frigid temperature or interpreted as a request for comfort.

"I've known the guy for years, Iggy." He says cheekily, hoping his face isn't as flushed as it feels. "I know he dances like he wouldn't know the word rhythm if it slapped him in the face, but you don't train with Gladio for years without learning some kind of timing."

Ignis looks more exasperatedly fond than ever.

"You would think so," He acknowledges wryly with a dip of his chin, "but you think you can teach him something his tutors have failed to successfully instil in him since he was eleven?"

"How hard can it be?" Prompto offers offhandedly.

Ignis snorts and Prompto nearly faints from shock. He does in fact fall off the stool he had been sitting on, sprawled in an inelegant tangle in the floor. 

" _Iggy_! Tell me I did not just hear that!" He splutters as Ignis begins to chuckle, the dried flour dotted across on his face flaking off. 

"I'm afraid I'll have to dispose of you Prompto if you inform anyone," Ignis deadpans but Prompto only laughs. 

"You couldn't," He giggles helplessly, "You'd miss my jokes too much."

"And," He continues at Ignis's attempt to protest. "Who would help you with the cleanup of all the cooking you do?" 

This response only elicits another peal of half-serious ("You never help regardless!") protest from Ignis and results in Prompto's meticulously styled hair being covered in flour much to his disgust. 

" _Iggy_ ," He whines, feeling betrayed. "How could you? Especially since I'm offering to take Noct off your hands for a couple hours each week. Not to mention I'm gonna surpass your dance lessons."

"You can try," Ignis says, a daring edge to his voice. 

"Wait - you mean I can do it?" Prompto crows victoriously. 

"Be prepared for bruised toes," is the only snarky response. 

**Author's Note:**

> this idea was just too cute not to write. please leave a comment or kudos if you like! i'd love to know your thoughts on this bundle of fluff and awkward prose.


End file.
